


swear everything's fine

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 03:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4206468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry shows niall a tattoo he's never seen</p>
            </blockquote>





	swear everything's fine

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr in august 2014 
> 
> come say hi [here](ihavea1dbloghelp.tumblr.com) !

“I’ve got some you don’t know about,” Harry says, one day, when they’re getting high in a hotel room somewhere in the South. Niall’s ordered up room service, chips and club sandwiches and cubed fruit, and they’re currently sitting on one bed, passing Niall’s glass pipe back and forth. 

“Yeah bloody right,” Niall says, snorting, beckoning for the lighter. Harry hands it over. “You show off your tattoos to anyone who’ll listen for three seconds." 

"S’not trueeee,” Harry says, sing-song. His hair is a mess in the Southern heat, humid and curling around his face, damp with sweat. He’s wearing boxers and a thin vest he stole off Niall, so it fits tight to his chest. Looks alright on him, honestly. Niall doesn’t mind the view. 

Just from where he’s sitting, he can see the mess of Harry’s arm, the tips of the swallows, the laurels curling from under the vest - even his Brasil tattoo is visible. He’s an open fucking book like that, all scribbled over and vulnerable. Niall could never do that.  _Too permanent_ , is what he usually says when one of the lads begs him to accompany them to the tattoo parlor. And it’s mostly true. He doesn’t like needles, and it’s permanent, and - once it’s on you, people get to ask about it. Once it’s visible, it’s up for discussion. 

Niall doesn’t have anything he’d want to be up for discussion, not with the whole bloody world. 

Least not yet. 

“Fine, try and stump me,” Niall says, laughing out a cloud of smoke. Harry’s such a bloody toddler, sometimes. 

“Thigh,” Harry says, pointing at it, and Niall rolls his eyes. 

“Seen it, mate, along with everyone else on this fucking planet." 

Harry pouts, drags his finger over the tattoo. “Fiiine. What about my wrist?” 

He offers it to Niall, and Niall picks his arm up, turns it over. 

"God, these are shit,” he murmurs, and laughs when Harry digs his fingernails into Niall’s arm. 

“Don’t be a twat." 

Niall huffs a laugh. “Sorry, sorry.” 

"Now I don’t even want to show you,” Harry says, because again,  _toddler_. 

“You mean you don’t have any to show me? Since I know all of them?" 

"I swear you don’t,” Harry says, eyes gleaming. “Not all of them." 

"Please, God, don’t tell me there’s one on your fuckin’ cock,” Niall groans. “Please." 

"I was just thinking about that the other day,” Harry says dreamily, before he flicks the lighter and takes a deep hit off the pipe. He exhales slowly, luxuriously. 

“Don’t do it,” Niall says. “I know I’m, like, sworn to non-judgment, but don’t bloody do it, Haz, you’ll regret it." 

"Regrets are for schmucks,” Harry says, tapping Niall’s nose with one finger. “That’s what Ben says." 

"Well, Ben would have to say that,” Niall says, snorting a little, and Harry’s mouth curls into a wicked grin. 

“What are you saying about our director, dear Nialler?" 

"Nothing at all, dearest Hazza." 

"I could text him right now, you know,” Harry says, wiggling his phone in Niall’s face. “Tell him your opinions on the video-" 

"Give me that,” Niall says, grabbing at it. “I only said all that cuz I was pissed, anyway-" 

"In vino veritas,” Harry intones. 

“In pints veritas,” Niall corrects, rolling his Rs extravagantly, and Harry laughs so hard he falls over. 

“Don’t bloody - careful, with the bowl, you idiot,” Niall laughs, taking the pipe out of Harry’s hands. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ." 

Harry’s on his back, hands over his belly as he laughs, high and breathy and reasonless. He must be fucked-up, then. Niall better catch up. 

He takes a hit, and nearly falls over himself when Harry sits back up and sticks his mouth in Niall’s face. 

"Shotgun, please,” he says very politely, and Niall coughs out smoke. He’s tried to make it a rule to not shotgun the boys, mostly because he then starts to want to kiss them all, and he’s trying to not think about that anymore. 

Harry, though. Niall’s shit at saying no to Harry. 

“C’mon, you’re the best at it,” Harry says, wriggling closer to Niall on the bed, folding his endless legs in. His knees bump against Niall’s, skin warm and so tan compared to Niall’s pale thighs. 

“You’re a brat,” Niall says, even as he raises the pipe to his mouth, and Harry just grins and moves closer. He has a spot above his eyebrow and he’s peeling a bit from sunburn on the bridge of his nose, but God, he’s still the best thing Niall’s ever seen up close. 

Harry opens his mouth, but he’s too far away. Niall frowns with his mouth full of smoke, pulls Harry closer by the chin and blows hard. 

Harry takes it perfectly, sucks it all in, his lips so close Niall can feel every quiver of his mouth. He can feel the heat of his body, radiating, like Harry’s soaked up the sun all day like a sponge and now it’s filtering out of him. 

He starts to move away once it’s done, and Harry grabs him by the back of the neck, deceptively fast - holds him right there. 

“I have tattoos you’ve never seen,” he whispers, and it’s cheesy - it’s a line, though for what purpose Niall’s not sure - but Niall shudders anyway. 

Harry must feel it - feel the shiver that crawls down Niall’s back - but he doesn’t say anything. 

Just pulls away, and smiles. 

“You don’t,” Niall says, trying to grasp at the straws of conversation instead of thinking about how red and soft Harry’s mouth is, how nice it would be to kiss, right now.  _Shit_. See, this is why he can’t get fucked up around certain people. Starts acting like a bloody cuntstruck teenager. 

“Do." 

"Don’t." 

Harry heaves a sigh. “Fiiiiine, Nialler, since you begged me, I’ll show you.” 

"I didn’t- ” Niall stops, shaking his head. There’s no use arguing with him, sometime. 

And then Harry’s turning around, yanking off his vest, and Niall goes breathless at the expanse of tan skin before him. Shit. 

Harry reaches back with one hand, digs his fingers into the tangled nest of his dark hair and lifts it. 

“Look,” he says, moving closer, wriggling back into the V of Niall’s pretzeled legs. Niall fights the urge to grab the soft flesh of his hips, squeeze, pinch. He grits his teeth. 

“See, behind my ear." 

There’s a stray curl in the way, which means Niall is going to have to - touch him. Alright. Man up, Horan. It’s just fucking  _Harry_.

He puts his fingers on Harry’s scalp and lifts his curls, the hair silky-damp against his skin. 

"See?” Harry says, muffled, and Niall peers closer. 

Behind the bend of Harry’s ear, in the soft hollow of skin, there’s a tiny mark. 

“Jesus,” Niall says, impressed. “What is it?" 

"You can’t see?" 

He squints. “Looks like a 2, or sommat.”

Harry lets his hair fall, and Niall - Niall’s going to take his hand off, in one second. He definitely is. He lets it skim down Harry’s neck first, though, a greedy stolen touch, and when Harry shivers under his touch Niall yanks his hand away. 

"Yeah,” Harry says, turning around. All his tattoos are on display, now, and Niall realizes dazedly, belatedly, that there was really no need for Harry to take his shirt off. “It’s a 2." 

"Whassat for?" 

Harry shrugs, shifty-eyed. 

"You got a secret tattoo that means nothing." 

"Doesn’t mean nothing,” Harry says, slowly. “It’s about a person." 

Niall raises an eyebrow. Waits. 

"I’m not telling you,” Harry laughs, scrubbing a hand over his face, dimples popping out. 

“Yes you bloody are. You’re not gonna show me your stupid secret tattoo and then not tell me who it’s about." 

"It’s no one." 

"It is not no one. You twat-” he grabs for Harry’s bare hips - so easy for a tickle, Harry is, it’s hard to resist - and Harry squawks, kicks, flops onto his back and takes Niall down with him. 

They wrestle for a minute, until the pipe bounces off the bed and lands with a thud on the carpeted floor. Harry’s still under Niall, and the warm length of his body is - not -  _helpful_ , to anything, so Niall rolls off him, laughs. It only sounds a little forced. 

Harry stops him with one hand, so Niall’s on his side facing Harry, and their faces are close. 

“Fine,” he says, tweaking Niall’s nipple. “Fine. It’s for Nick. And he’s got one too." 

"Nick - Grimmy Nick?" 

"Grimmy Nick.” Harry’s face is curious - fond and bitter and maybe sad, a bit. In the way his eyes aren’t fully lit up anymore. 

“He’s got one?" 

"A two,” Harry says softly, reaching up, sliding his hand over Niall’s neck til his fingers are brushing behind Niall’s ear. “Right here." 

"Why?” Niall manages to say, blood rushing fast in his body. Harry’s hand is so warm. He has to consciously focus on breathing. 

“Just means - something,” Harry murmurs, eyes flickering over Niall’s face. Niall fully  _can’t breathe_. Christ, he’s weak sometimes. So easy. “Don’t matter. C’mere-“ 

And he’s pulling Niall in, kissing his mouth. 

It’s surreal, for a moment, and then Niall comes back down to earth and feels  _everything_. The shape of Harry’s plush mouth, the fingers cupping his jaw - Harry moving closer to him on the bed. The expanse of bare skin. The wet sound when Harry pulls back to breathe and then comes back in at a different angle, licking, sucking at Niall’s bottom lip. 

Niall feels every bit. 

“Haz,” he says, eyes closed - when did his eyes close? “Hazza, should we-" 

"Yeah, yeah,” Harry breathes, kissing him again, open-mouthed and messy. Niall hitches himself closer, nearly groans when Harry curls a hand around the side of his thigh, long fingers nearly spanning the width of it. “We definitely should." 

Niall sinks into it, then, even though he shouldn’t trust Harry’s easy reassurances. He’s done it before, and things have gotten fucked up. Things are easy for Harry, so he assumes they’ll be easy for everyone else, and it’s not the same-

He shudders out a groan, cutting off his train of thought, when Harry cups his arse and then gives it a squeeze. Christ, it’s been a while since Niall’s done this with a bloke. And it’s never been with Harry, even though they flirt, and Harry sleeps in his bed some nights, and Harry ruffles his hair onstage and pinches his nipples when they’re off. 

Somehow, they’ve never gotten to this. 

Maybe because Niall honestly thought Harry only fancied women.  

Harry’s certainly been enjoying himself this tour - shagging venue workers and crew members and on one memorable occasion, a girl who worked at a restaurant in Memphis. Niall knows, because Harry came back to the table after fifteen minutes in the toilet with a smirk on his face. Sat down, and pushed his hair out of his face, and grinned at Niall like he knew exactly how much Niall wanted to know every detail. 

Niall had barbecue sauce on his face and his stomach was full of beer, so he said, "You’re a fucking slag,” and didn’t even try to hide the edge in his voice.  

Harry just winked at him, reached over and stole a few of Niall’s chips. 

Harry’s shit at keeping secrets and very, very good at telling them. Which is why it’s surprising, now, the way he’s groping Niall’s arse with an experienced hand while he fucks his tongue into Niall’s mouth. 

Maybe he’s just naturally good at this, the way he’s good at everything. 

Except then Harry runs his hand up Niall’s back, pulls back and breathes shakily against his mouth. 

“You want to fuck me?” he breathes. He smells like weed and tastes like melon, and Niall tries very hard not to let his eyes flutter shut out of sheer lust at Harry’s words. God. Niall hasn’t done  _that_  in even longer. He does the other way round, mostly - with blokes who are a little bigger than Harry, a little rougher, if Niall’s in the mood for it. Blokes willing to be discreet. It’s just what Niall’s into, usually. 

But suddenly it seems like an amazing fucking idea. Harry’s pressed up against him, waiting for an answer, and Niall leans in for a kiss. 

Harry pulls away before Niall can get there. “Yes or no?” he says, sounding insecure in a way that’s completely foreign to Niall. Harry never sounds like that. 

“Yeah,” Niall says, comfortingly, petting Harry’s back. “Yeah, god, yes. You done that before?" 

He moves his hand up into Harry’s hair the way he’s wanted to for ages - digs his fingers in. 

"Yeah,” Harry says, after a minute, with his brow furrowing. 

“Alright, then,” Niall mumbles, kissing him again. 

“Not for a while,” Harry adds, a minute later, pulling back. He’s red-faced, but Niall can’t tell if it’s from sunburn or pot or shame or all three. 

“How long?” Niall asks, and Harry shrugs, running the flat of his hand down Niall’s chest, onto his belly. He seems determined, almost, like he needs to get some semblance of control back. Why he thinks he’s lost it, Niall’s got no idea. 

“Like,” he says, groping against Niall’s dick in his briefs, feeling out the size and weight of it. Niall shivers. “Eight months, maybe." 

Huh. That is pretty long, in Harry-time. Practically abstinence. 

"You like doing it?” Niall says softly, not meaning for it to be dirty, but Harry shudders, eyes going liquid-dark, and arches his back so the bulge of his cock brushes against Niall’s thighs. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I like it.”

“How do you like it, then?” Niall asks, shakily, hitching out a groan when Harry lines their crotches up, presses his dick against Niall’s. Like this, Niall’s head is level with Harry’s chest, and he fights the urge to bury his head against it, nuzzle Harry’s skin, like an animal seeking heat. 

Harry takes a shuddery breath, and then whispers, “On- on my back." 

Like it’s a secret. 

"Alright,” Niall says, reaching up for another kiss. “Get on your back then." 

Harry rolls over promptly - god, so easy for it, like always. He spreads his legs wide, and Niall wants to make a joke, except then Harry beckons for him with his eyes dark, and Niall forgets what he was going to say. 

He kisses Harry again - his mouth is  _incredible_ , alright, Niall’s only human - and says, against the warm soft of Harry’s cheek, "You have stuff?" 

Harry nods, running his fingers up Niall’s back in this way that makes him twitch. "My - my, uh, pocket of my jeans." 

” _Seriously_? Thought that was only in films, you arsehole. You honestly expect a shag every day, don’t you?“ 

Harry gives a shrug, eyes teasing, and Niall huffs a long-suffering breath, stands up to rifle through Harry’s discarded jeans. There it is, tucked in his back pocket - a condom. 

No lube. 

"Haz,” Niall says, pulling out the other thing in Harry’s pocket, which is a receipt from an In-N-Out. “Where’s the slick?" 

"The condom,” Harry says, as he kicks off his pants. His cock is thick and red and hard, curved just a bit to the left, and Niall has to drag his eyes away. He swallows, hard. “S'in the condom. It’s enough." 

"It’s not bloody enough,” Niall says, shaking his head. “Not if you haven’t gone in a while." 

"Just get the fuck back over here, please,” Harry says, lifting his head. His dick smears sticky against his abs, dragging against the skin. Niall swallows again. “It’s enough. It’s- I don’t mind it." 

And, well. Niall gets that. Niall sure as fuck doesn’t mind it rough, either. He just always thought he was a bit off for liking it like that. 

He gets back into bed, watches as Harry spreads his legs, tucks his knee up, gets himself situated. Niall almost feels detached from the whole situation - like he’s watching Harry jerk off, or have sex with someone else. Like this is more about  _Harry_  and less about  _them, fucking_. 

It’s weird. But it’s still hot, and Niall’s still so hard, so he doesn’t say anything. 

"Just, like,” Harry says, frowning, wriggling a pillow under his hips. “Get your fingers wet. Two." 

Niall’s chest is tight. 

"Yeah,” he says, shaking himself, crawling between Harry’s legs and gingerly touching Harry’s leg to spread him wider. Harry’s skin is hot, from his muscular thigh to the soft inside of it, up to the swell of his arsecheek and his pink arsehole. Niall’s breathing hard, now, and when he rubs one finger, dry, over Harry’s hole, Harry twitches against it and lets out a shuddery breath. 

“C'mon,” he says, nodding at the condom in Niall’s free hand. “Do it." 

"Gettin’ to it,” Niall mutters, ripping the packet open. “You always this pushy?" 

Harry just kicks Niall’s hip and then dimples up at him innocently, like a toddler. Niall shakes his head, _finally_  gets the condom out, tosses the packet aside. 

He gets slick between his fingers and then carefully, gently slips one inside. It’s rough going, at first - dry, and Harry’s painfully tight. Harry lets out a huff of breath. 

"Breathe,” Niall says, chewing his bottom lip, watching Harry clench against the intrusion. “You sure you want-" 

"Yeah,” Harry says, low, fast. “Just don’t - just don’t stop." 

He exhales slowly, loosens up a bit, and Niall works a finger inside. 

"Breathe,” he murmurs, because Harry sounds a bit like he’s dying - all choked half-finished breaths and jumpy arse muscles clenching around Niall’s finger. “Relax, Hazza." 

Harry breathes out again, and it only trembles a bit. 

"Just do another,” he mutters, swallowing audibly. “I’m fine." 

He’s not like how Niall pictured it - not that he had, much, because of the whole issue of Harry’s apparent heterosexuality. But still. He’d pictured Harry an absolute slag for it like he is for everything else, spreading wide and welcoming a cock inside with a sweet smile and a hot sort of moan. Like he was born to take it. 

But Harry, real Harry, is tense and trembling and his voice is ragged when he says, "Niall, god. Come on." 

"I’m taking my time,” Niall says, rubbing his free hand over Harry’s thigh, and then his flat belly, where his cock is half-hard and there’s still precome glistening on his skin. When he touches Harry’s stomach gently Harry lets out a long shaking breath and relaxes, a bit, and Niall takes the opportunity to push a second finger in. 

He curves them inside Harry, trying to find his prostate, because maybe that’s what Harry needs out of this. Niall’s a bit eager for it, even just fingers dipping shallowly in him - likes the feeling of being played with, teased. But Harry might need more than that. 

He knows he’s got it when Harry groans through his teeth and his legs try to clench together, like he wants to hold Niall right  _there_. Niall rubs against it a few times, as Harry shudders and bites his lip and his cock starts to get fully hard against his belly. 

“That feel good?” Niall asks, voice strangely hushed, resting his other palm gently over Harry’s cock. He can feel the blood pulsing, Harry’s stomach trembling underneath it. “Is that alright?" 

"Yeah,” Harry sighs. “Yeah. I- you can fuck me. You can-”

“Not yet.” Niall’s getting into it, watching the way Harry’s cock jerks, drools when Niall hits the exact right spot. “Gimme a minute just like this." 

It’s not long before Harry reaches down, clamps a hand over Niall’s wrist. 

"Fuck me,” he says, voice hoarse. 

Niall looks up at him, straight in the eyes. Harry’s staring, and his cheeks are red, and his mouth is so, so pink. God. 

“Yeah,” Niall chokes out. “Yeah. Alright." 

It takes a few tries, but he gets it eventually, and Harry opens up for him with a glaze-eyed stare and a quiet pained sound. He works in slowly, watching his cock slide inside, watching Harry’s thighs shudder. 

"Alright?” he says, faintly, once he’s bottomed out. 

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, voice as deep and gravelly as Niall’s ever heard it. “Move." 

When Niall pulls out and thrusts in, though, Harry whimpers, and looks desperately to the side, tendons in his neck standing out. 

Niall doesn’t know what to do. He’s never seen Harry look like this. He’s seen him on the pull, with his eyes gleaming, his mouth curving up. He’s seen Harry exhausted to his bones, and falling-down drunk, and quietly angry, and happy, and homesick. 

But not like this. 

Harry’s cheeks are red and his mouth is tight, but he’s breathing out moans like he needs it and his arse is clenched tight around Niall, and  _god_ , his dick is so hard. 

Niall doesn’t know what to do, so he just - fucks Harry, best he can. 

"Alright?” he says a while later, needlessly. Harry’s loud by now, groaning and gasping. His back is arching with every thrust, and he’s jerking himself off furiously. 

He hasn’t looked at Niall, though. His eyes keep glazing over, flitting to the side. They haven’t kissed. 

“Yeah,” Harry chokes out, one of his hands fisted in the sheets. “Does it. Does it feel good?" 

For some reason that makes Niall’s heart hurt. 

"Yeah,” he mumbles back, rolling his hips to get in deep, exhaling hard when Harry bears down on him. It’s true; Harry feels incredible. “Yeah, Haz, you feel so good." 

Harry mumbles in his throat, tossing his head back. Niall’s arms are starting to burn, a sweet-hot pain, and he can feel himself getting close. His breath is speeding up, everything else slipping away except the tight heat of Harry’s arse. 

_Harry could be anyone_ , he thinks, with a sudden jolt of something like guilt. God, this is why Niall gets fucked instead of fucking, so his mind doesn’t keep running during sex. 

Harry’s hair is loose, spilled across the pillow, and for some reason Niall zeroes in on it as he starts to come. He stares at the silky dark curls against white sheets, breath caught in his throat, and works his orgasm out into Harry’s arse, into the condom. It’s so good that his toes and fingers tingle like they’ve fallen asleep, and his head hurts, and he’s in love, that momentary way he gets right when he nuts off inside someone. It’s just chemicals, probably, but it feels real, and it feels good.

It’s so,  _so_  good. Niall keeps working his hips, slower now as he comes down, and Harry grabs his arse with a hand, desperately, like he’s trying to shove Niall inside. He sucks in a few shaky, fast breaths, his hand in a blur between his legs, and then he’s spurting up to his chest, whimpering. The sight of him makes Niall wish he could’ve waited. Makes him want to come again, twice more, all over Harry’s tattoos and his belly and his chest. 

But he can’t. Harry gasps until his breath slows and then throws an arm over his eyes. 

Niall opens his legs - he can feel the strain of Harry’s muscles, taut against his palms - and pulls out as gently as he can. 

Harry still hisses. 

"Sorry,” Niall says - the first word he says after fucking Harry, how mad - and Harry just lets out a breath through his lips, like he’s blowing a raspberry. 

Niall sits on the edge of the bed and drops the condom in the bin, rubs his palms over his thighs, touches the scar on his knee absentmindedly. The week after his surgery, Harry sent him embarrassingly huge pressies every day, ordered ‘em online, from LA - flowers and chocolates and fruit and cheese baskets. It was stupid. Niall called him after the fourth day - he really didn’t need a third box of liqueur-filled truffles and the paps were starting to take notice of the giant packages arriving at his doorstep every day. Harry just laughed down the line,  _sounding_  sun-soaked, so healthy and relaxed he made Niall burn with jealousy, and said, “How’s my Nialler, then? Being brave for me?" 

Harry’s sitting up when Niall turns around. He’s naked, hair hanging around his shoulders, and he looks up at Niall, smiles. It’s a little weak around the edges.

"So,” he says. “Niall Horan, you’ve got a nice cock." 

Niall laughs automatically, feels his face flush, grabs his pants off the ground. "Bet you say that to all the boys." 

Harry makes an innocent face, holds out his palms like  _who, me_? 

There’s a silence, and Niall picks up Harry’s briefs off the ground, holds them out. Harry shakes his head, and then stretches, long and lean and naked, over to the nightstand and grabs the pipe. 

"Mind if I pack it again?” he says, rubbing a hand over his mouth. 

“Go ahead." 

Harry hunches over the pipe, fumbles with thumb and forefinger to pick weed out of the grinder. 

"It’s weird to fuck your mates, isn’t it?” he says after a minute, patting at the packed bowl with his thumb, gently. “It’s weird sometimes." 

"I don’t feel weird,” Niall says, sitting down next to Harry in bed. He says it even though he does, kind of. He feels less weird about the actual sex and more weird about the way Harry wouldn’t look at him during, like he wished Niall were someone else. 

Harry shrugs. “Just easier with strangers, sometimes." 

"We don’t have to be weird,” Niall says. “S'just a shag. The Mirror says you do it all the time.”

He pokes Harry’s hip, and Harry gives a little wriggle, nearly spilling the bowl onto the bed. 

“Hey,” Niall says, watching him. “What’s the tattoo mean?" 

Harry hands the pipe to Niall, fumbles for the lighter on the nightstand. He lets out a little breath, reaches over to the room service cart for a half-empty bottle of beer. 

"Date of the first time we fucked,” he says, after a long moment, and tips the bottle up to his mouth. 

Niall snorts, surprised. “What a fucking romantic gesture." 

Harry raises his eyebrows at him over the beer bottle, takes a long swallow. His throat works, and Niall shifts on the bed just watching it. 

He passes the bottle over to Niall, and Niall takes a sip. 

"It’s sort of messed-up, isn’t it,” Harry says, wiping a hand over his mouth. “Like, that there are all these people who would be way easier." 

Niall tips the bottle back until it’s empty. Takes a hit off the pipe. 

"Easier?” he says, coughing. 

“Like.” Harry takes the pipe from him, lights it, closes his eyes as he exhales and keeps them closed when he speaks. “Like. 99% of the time it’s birds, you know? And it’s not that I’m bothered because I like blokes as well. Just. It’s kind of fucked that the person I - I want is completely impossible to have." 

He opens his eyes, takes another hit instead of passing it back, sucking hard on it. His face is red again. 

"Who says it’s impossible?” Niall says carefully, watching him. 

Harry blows out smoke, hands the pipe over and flops onto his back in bed. 

“I do,” he says. “Because I’m not going to ask anyone to wait around, and I can’t do it properly while we’re still - you know. While we’re still, uh. Touring." 

_Touring_  is code for:  _maintaining an image_. It’s code for:  _being in the closet_. Niall doesn’t call him out, though. 

Niall hums, flicking the lighter once, twice. 

"What if they want to wait around?” he says. “You ever ask Nick if he wanted to wait around?" 

Harry looks at him accusingly, like Niall is breaking some promise by saying Nick’s name out loud. 

Niall shrugs, looking away. "Just saying." 

"Nick’s not-” Harry starts, and then stops, tucking a knee up and hugging it to his chest. He looks young like that, soft-cheeked and vulnerable, like how he was when they started all this. Niall thinks about that Harry sometimes. Sometimes he wants to go back in time and warn him, but he’s not sure what about. “It’s not - s'not that easy. You don’t get it." 

"S'pose I wouldn’t, would I?” Niall mutters, and if it comes out bitter, well, fuck. Harry can just sod off about it. 

Harry doesn’t even look at him. He’s staring at the wall, still hugging his leg, back hunched. 

“We used to pretend I wasn’t famous,” he says, distantly, voice a little muffled from where he’s pressing his chin into his knee. “That he wasn’t famous either. Like, that we were, you know." 

"Not famous?” Niall says, archly. 

“Normal,” Harry breathes, ignoring the sharpness in Niall’s voice. “We used to pretend we were normal." 

Niall doesn’t say,  _how fucking adorable_. 

No one’s ever wanted to sleep with Niall because he’s  _normal_. They’ve wanted to sleep with him because he’s in One fucking Direction. 

Christ, he needs to not think about that right now. All that sort of sad paranoid shit is for late nights on the bus when he can’t sleep and Zayn’s on the phone in the next bunk over, murmuring to Perrie. 

"Must’ve been hard,” he says, instead. 

Harry looks at him, eyes still dazed. 

“There was this one night-” he starts, and Niall feels it like a stone in his gut. God, his dick’s practically still wet from Harry, and Harry’s telling him all about the epic romance he’s had with some other bloke. It’s not fucking  _fair_. 

“Yeah?” he says, looking away. He picks up the bowl for something to do, tries to get a hit off it. It’s kicked, though, so he sets it down again, brushing ash off his fingers. 

“We were drunk, and eating chips in bed and listening to Radio One, and. And like. He said it reminded him of uni. Eating in bed with someone. Listening to radio. And I just thought, like. I’m never gonna  _have_ that, you know? Being eighteen and going to uni with a bunch of other eighteen year olds. Or being twenty and being fucking  _broke_  in London, eating, like, Top Ramen every night. S'like. I’m never gonna be that person." 

"Yeah, mate,” Niall says, gently, like he’s talking to a child. “But it’s not half bad, you know. Being in One Direction." 

"Course it’s not,” Harry says, waving a hand. “It’s just. I just. I told Nick that - that I was never gonna be normal like that, and he said. He said I could be that with him. If I wanted. Like it was that fucking easy, you know? He just fed me some chips and told me to stop being a whiny popstar and it felt, like, really fucking easy." 

He runs a hand through his hair, lets it fall over his face in dark thick curls. 

"I think maybe, like.” He stops. “I don’t know. I think I was in love with him back then." 

It comes out unsteady, halting. Harry’s face is still curtained with hair, so Niall lets himself look. 

"Yeah?” he says.

Harry nods. 

“You think you still are?” Niall asks, heart in his throat for some reason. 

Harry shrugs, running a hand through his hair, over his face. 

“Dunno,” he says, muffled, into a palmful of hair. “Maybe." 

"He know that?" 

Harry shakes his head, and then lifts it, suddenly, hair falling away. His eyes are glassy. 

"I dunno,” he says again, and then, with a weak laugh, “Hope not.”

He sounds lost. Unwillingly, Niall thinks about that kid again, sixteen with ringlets and baby fat and a wide dimply  _love-me_  smile curling across his face. 

Niall pats Harry’s foot, because he can’t come up with a single thing to say, and Harry shoots him an absentminded smile, unfolds himself from the bed. 

“Gonna shower,” he says, leaning across, kissing Niall on the top of his head like a proud mum. He does it all the time, but never after Niall’s just fucked him in the arse. Niall fiddles with the pipe, tries to pretend everything’s the same as always.

“Yeah,” he says. “You smell." 

Harry huffs a laugh, and tousles Niall’s hair. His gait as he walks into the toilet is unsteady, and whether it’s from the sex or the beer or the pot, Niall’s not sure. 

When the shower turns on, Niall lifts his palm to his mouth and bites down, for five seconds and then ten. Then he shuts his eyes and breathes out, wet and hot, against the bitemarks. He tells himself his eyes aren’t wet, and they stop watering, because that’s a trick you pick up from people watching you for four years. No tears when they’re not wanted. 

Alright. He presses against the bitemarks with his opposite thumb, staring blankly at the cool white wall of the hotel room, listening to the shower run. Alright. Everything’s fine. 


End file.
